THE ORPHANS OF MERSEA HOUSE

  A NOVEL

  Marty Wingate

  To Leighton

  CHAPTER 1

  Southwold, Suffolk

  March 1957

  Olive held the nightdress up to the sunlight that streamed through the east window in her mother’s room, and admired the handiwork. Its pin-tuck pleating on the bodice had never puckered, and the scroll embroidery along the low neck and up the straps lay flat. It looked as perfect as the day, years ago, it had been wrapped in tissue and put away. Olive brushed the cotton-lawn fabric against her cheek, felt its softness, and caught a scent like dried sweet hay, acquired from the sachet deep in the drawer. The garment had been a gift to Daisy, her mother, from … whom? An old aunt, as Olive recalled. “You keep it for yourself, Olive,” Daisy had said. “It’s better suited to a young woman.”

  The nightdress suffered from the “too-pretty-to-wear” ailment and had been put safely away. Now, Olive, no longer young, refolded the garment, wrapped it in its tissue, and laid it in the case she was filling with a few treasures. Her other case would hold everything else she owned—practical, everyday clothes and a second pair of shoes. Anything left would be for the church’s jumble sale or the ragbag. The sum total of Olive Kersey’s life. She sighed and then huffed, blowing away a cloud of useless self-pity.

  A rap at the door prompted Olive to glance out the window to the doorstep below. She left her sorting and hurried downstairs to answer.

  “Good morning, Miss Binny,” she said.

  Constance Binny adjusted her several shawls, and the pheasant tail feather that curled round her hat bobbed a greeting. “Good morning to you, Olive,” she said and smiled, accentuating her sharp features. “Poor dear girl, I’ve been that worried about you these last two weeks since your mother’s funeral. I’ve not heard a word and thought I’d better look in.”

  “That’s kind of you,” Olive replied, knowing that Miss Binny’s appearance meant she either had town gossip to impart or needed a fresh supply of news to pass along to others about Poor Dear Olive, who had been left with nothing and no one. “Would you like coffee? I was just about to have some myself.”

  “Yes, that would be lovely.”

  They went to the kitchen, the only warm spot in the house. Olive filled the percolator and set it on the hob—Miss Binny wouldn’t drink Nescafé—and put a pan of milk on to heat. Olive had bought half a seedcake at the bakery the day before against this inevitable visit and had put it away in the bread bin, hoping it wouldn’t dry out too quickly.

  Settled at the table, Binny started in on the news. It flowed in a continuous stream: the shortcomings of Tom, husband of Hetty Dupree who ran the tea hut at the seaside; the rumor that a chambermaid had been dismissed from The Swan Hotel under suspicious circumstances; and the sad display of altar flowers in church the previous Sunday. Olive barely listened.

  Constance Binny had made a life of being in other people’s lives, including the Kerseys’. As Daisy’s health failed, Binny had taken it upon herself to look in regularly. Olive’s mother had been bedridden, weak, and in pain, but she had been one of those women who remained pleasant and cheerful despite their circumstances, and so she had always acted happy to see her visitor. When Olive would take the coffee tray upstairs for the two women, her mother would wave her off. “Connie will catch me up on things,” Daisy would say. “You go on now.” And for an hour, Olive would escape, walking a wide circuit along the seafront to the mouth of the Blyth, breathing in the salt air and not caring if the north wind was pushing her along or driving her back.

  In one of Daisy’s less lucid moments not long before she died, she’d referred to Binny as “that wittering witch.” It was only then the penny had dropped: all that time, Daisy had put up with the visits and never complained so that Olive could have a brief respite from the sickroom and its duties. That had been her mother’s way—little kindnesses given freely throughout her life.

  “I’m quite concerned about you,” Miss Binny said to Olive. “If only Donald had made it through the war, he would be happily married now and could take care of you.”

  Olive knew that her brother, who had died at Dunkirk, would certainly have taken care of her, but she thought the possibility that he would be happily married was remote.

  “It was his way, wasn’t it?” Binny asked. “He was such a good boy. But now, Olive, what will you do with yourself?”

  “Not to worry.”

  Olive didn’t take her own advice. She had worried every minute of every day the last few months until the worry had woven itself into the fabric of her being. Three pounds, four and six in her post office account, and no prospects to speak of. All her worldly possessions could fit in those two cases upstairs. She, Donald, and their parents had lived in the terrace house Olive’s entire life, but they had only rented, never owned. Olive couldn’t even count the kettle or the dishes and saucepans as possessions. Not any longer, at least. She’d traded the lot to pay one more month’s rent, and the clock was ticking.

  “Have you found a position?” Miss Binny inquired.

  That she must find paid work was quite clear to Olive, but what sort? She knew her limitations. At thirty-seven years old, she had experience in keeping house and looking after someone, and so she had aimed high, setting her sights on becoming companion to a young woman. Some well-to-do families believed their daughters were safer with an older woman employed to keep an eye on things. Surely Olive qualified for that. But nothing had come of the four newspaper advertisements she’d answered—one as far away as Carlisle. She then lowered her expectations. If not a young woman, Olive could be the younger companion to someone older than herself. And if not a companion, a housekeeper. If not a housekeeper … was she too old for factory work?

  “I’ve received some encouragement,” Olive replied as she stood and turned to the cooker to hide her red cheeks. “Would you like more coffee?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Olive poured, replenished the hot milk, and sat down again.

  “I do hope this will work out for you, dear, but it must be difficult, as you have no previous position and therefore no references.” Miss Binny leaned over the table and in a conspiratorial tone said, “I might have a solution for you. I might just. You remember, Olive, I had a young cousin with me three years ago. She needed to be away from her family, and I was happy to offer her shelter and guidance.”

  Olive remembered a scared-looking girl who had lived with Binny for six or eight months. She cooked, she cleaned, she scurried after the woman round town, and at last, she had gone back to her family. Olive had said goodbye to her and wished her well. It might’ve been the only time she’d seen the girl smile.

  “I do remember her, yes. Isn’t she married now?”

  “She is,” Binny said, voicing a wealth of disapproval with only two words. “But you see, Olive, in only that short time, I realized how much good I could do by taking someone in who may need help. In exchange for company and the odd household chore.”

  A cold, creeping dread came over Olive as Binny continued to describe a scene that might’ve come out of a Charles Dickens story: desperate and destitute girl taken in by—in this case—an overbearing, rigid woman who seemed bent on distorting the qualities of Christian charity. Before her very eyes, Constance Binny grew in size until Olive’s vision was filled with a beaky nose, a bobbing pheasant tail, and a mouth that wouldn’t stop.

  “… and I feel I owe it to your mother, you know, to look after you.”

  Olive took a sharp breath and came to herself. She saw her hands clutching at the edge of the table, her knuckles white. She carefully let go as she said, “That’s so kind of you, Miss Binny, but as I have already entered into negotiations about another post, I couldn’t possibly back out now.”

  “Oh.” The feather quivered. “So, you have had an actual offer?”

  “Until the details are in order, I’d rather not say anything. I’m sure you understand.” She offered a warm smile.

  Miss Binny smiled in return. “There, Olive—now you look more like your cheerful self. I’m quite happy for you, my dear. But you will let me know how it turns out.”

  “I certainly will.” After her narrow escape, Olive could breathe again. Perhaps factory work wouldn’t be too bad after all.

  As soon as her guest had departed, Olive pulled on her Norfolk jacket, tied a headscarf under her chin, and went out for a walk. She took her usual circuit, but counterclockwise today, making for the water tower and out to Blackshore Quay. There, she turned east, crunching on the gravel as she passed the fishing shacks. The gray skies were spitting rain, but she paid the weather no mind, heading north up Ferry Road and veering off at Gun Hill. Now, with the sea on her right and town on her left, she continued up the Parade, giving Hetty a wave as she passed the tea hut. Before she reached the pier, Olive turned one last time, up Field Stile Road and back to the house. She was pulling out her key when she heard her name called.

  Olive looked over her shoulder to see a woman dressed in a rose-colored, tailored suit and no hat to cover her curly bob. She was breathing heavily and put a hand out on the low front wall to brace herself.

  “I’ve been chasing you since you turned off North Parade,” she said. “God, I’d forgotten you walk like you’re running a race.”

  It was as if the fifteen years since they’d seen each other vanished in a second.

  “Margery Paxton,” Olive said with one h
and on a hip, “you couldn’t keep up with a snail wearing those shoes, could you?” She nodded at Margery’s high heels.

  Margery laughed. “I’m not made for those cobweb-clearing jaunts of yours,” she said. “I never was. How are you, Olive?”

  Olive nodded but didn’t speak. It’s a dangerous place, the junction of happiness and grief—too easy for those tears, so near the surface, to suddenly tumble out. Margery stepped forward, and the women met on the pavement and exchanged a warm embrace. Olive smiled and then laughed and brushed a hand over her wet cheek.

  “I’m awfully sorry about your mum,” Margery said. “And that I couldn’t make it back for her funeral.”

  “It’s all right. You’d been in town just before that, hadn’t you, because of Uncle Milkey. I’m sorry he’s gone.”

  No funeral had been held for Milkey Paxton. He had been a proud unbeliever, attending neither church nor chapel, and had specifically requested no “hocus-pocus” after he died. Instead, he’d arranged to stand his friends and associates a pint of Adnams’s best bitter at the Lord Nelson when he was gone. Not only friends and associates, but also a good few hangers-on had happily taken him up on his offer.

  “It was a flying visit to sort things out,” Margery said, “although there’s still a great deal to do.”

  “Well, it can’t be easy to get away from your job in London, I suppose.”

  Margery frowned at that.

  “Come in,” Olive said, opening the door. “Have you had lunch? I’ll put the kettle on.”

  In the entry, she untied her scarf, but before she could take off her coat, Margery took hold of the material and held it out and away from Olive’s body. “You’re swimming in this.”

  Olive hugged the coat round her. “It was Donald’s—a good Norfolk jacket and quite warm. I couldn’t let it go. All I had to do was turn up the cuffs.”

  Margery smiled. She said nothing about the age of the jacket or the thriftiness of its current owner. “Your brother was a good few inches taller. His jacket’s turned into your coat.”

  When Olive had shed the coat and hung it on a peg, Margery clicked her tongue. “The coat’s not the only thing too big on you.”

  Olive looked down at the cardigan that hung loosely over her dress, which fit about as well as a flour sack might. She crossed her arms. “I suppose I should take it in.”

  “I don’t think that’s the point,” Margery said. “The point is, you haven’t been eating.”

  Olive couldn’t argue, but the reason, which she suspected Margery knew, was that there hadn’t been a great deal to eat of late. But she wasn’t looking for sympathy. Olive led the way into the kitchen and set the kettle on the hob. “I haven’t shopped today—you wouldn’t mind potted meat for a sandwich, would you?”

  “Should we wrap them up and carry them down to the beach as we used to?” Margery asked, taking cups and saucers down off the shelf.

  Olive laughed. “I wonder how much sand we ate growing up. We should stay here. It’s raining out.” She sliced the last of the loaf, opened the tin of meat, and spread a lavish amount on the bread. She would have an egg for her tea later.

  “Have you had company?” Margery asked, looking at the empty coffee things.

  “Constance Binny.”

  “Oh dear”—Margery wrinkled her nose—“Busy Binny. What news did she bring?”

  “Noting of note. So, are you selling up?” Olive asked as they tucked into their sandwiches. Margery, Milkey Paxton’s only living relative, had inherited not only his money, but also his shop, Paxton’s Goods, and Mersea House, the large red-brick edifice with Portland stone trimming that sat on the west side of South Green. But Margery’s life had been in London since the beginning of the war, and the consensus in Southwold was that house and shop would soon have new owners.

  “Young Trotter asked me the same thing this morning,” Margery said.

  Although Uncle Milkey had stayed sharp in mind and business acumen until his end at age eighty-eight, he had grown frail in body, and Young Trotter had been his right-hand man in the shop. But Young Trotter knew no more about the fate of the business than anyone else in town.

  Margery took a large bite of her sandwich, precluding any other discussion for a few moments. When she swallowed, she asked, “What will you do now?”

  If Margery wouldn’t give a straight answer, then Olive didn’t see why she should.

  “I’m quite torn between governess to Princess Anne and housekeeping at Butlin’s Holiday Camp in Skegness.”

  “Oh, Skegness—just up the road, then.” Margery grinned, but she also narrowed her eyes at Olive, who looked away. Finished with her sandwich, Margery searched in her handbag and came up with a cigarette case and lighter. “Fag?” she asked, then shook her head. “No, you don’t smoke.” She lit up her own and sat back. “It’s odd to think that with your mum and Uncle Milkey passing, they’re all gone now. Neither of us with any family to speak of.”

  “Your Uncle Milkey and Auntie Von were good to you, weren’t they?” Olive asked.

  “The best,” Margery said. “There they were fifty years old and childless, but they never thought twice about taking an orphaned baby in. I wasn’t even a year old. It must’ve been a bit of a shock to them, but they never said.”

  “It’s hard to believe it’s been so many years since your Auntie Von died.”

  “And your dad at the end of the war. Uncle Milkey said he was a shattered man after Donald was killed.”

  Olive nodded. Her brother’s death had precipitated their father’s long, slow road to his own demise. “Officially, it was Dad’s lungs that got him in the end—from the mustard gas in 1917.”

  “I’m sorry you and I didn’t keep up,” Margery said. “I came back so seldom, just flying visits to Uncle Milkey. I should’ve written.”

  “I should’ve too,” Olive said. “It’s just the way of things. But it’s very good to see you now, even if it is a flying visit. I don’t suppose there’s time to catch each other up on everything.” Although a summary of the past fifteen years of Olive’s life wouldn’t take long.

  “Let’s see,” Margery said, “you had a beau at the start of the war.”

  “Stan.” She hadn’t said his name aloud in such a long time that it felt strange on her tongue, and without warning, a door in Olive’s heart creaked open. She slammed it shut. “Just a fellow I met at the dance hall. He was killed early on.” She felt Margery’s eyes on her and sought a deflection. “But you—you and George.”

  Margery flicked ash into her plate. “George and I were finished before the war. Went our separate ways.”

  “And you took off for London.”

  “I went to London to do my bit,” Margery said. “I got on as a secretary at the Ministry of Information, and the sum total of my war effort was typing leaflets about raising cabbage.”

  “But you stayed on. London must be exciting.”

  “I suppose,” Margery replied. She stood. “I must dash. Look, Olive, you won’t up and leave, will you? Not without telling me?”

  “No, I won’t,” Olive said, obeying without question, just as she always had. The thought made her smile. “How will I reach you?”

  “Well, I may look in again soon. Or you can leave a message with Young Trotter at the shop. All right?”

  Margery left. Olive remained in the kitchen, sitting quietly and thinking of the past. She missed that boy from the dance hall, who had been more to her than she could now admit. She missed her brother, gone all these years. She missed her mother, gone a fortnight. And now, after this brief reminder, she missed Margery and their friendship.

  Little good such sentimentality would do her. That’s what life had taught Olive—that it was better to just get on with it.

  * * *

  That afternoon, Olive posted a letter to Butlin’s inquiring after a housekeeping position. Skegness in Lincolnshire seemed like another world, and a holiday camp would be only seasonal work, but it would see her through September, at any rate. She dropped the letter in the pillar box, hoping it wasn’t another threepenny stamp wasted. Then, she took a carton of clothes to Mrs. Tees, who ran the jumble sales at St. Edmund’s Church and who tried to press on Olive a dress from a recent generous donation.